


Aenima

by alannablue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hell, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alannablue/pseuds/alannablue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thought he was broken already, but that was before Alistair brought him John's soul to torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The French Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat AU. John's soul never escapes from Hell to help Dean kill Azazel, but everything else happens just the same.  
> Potential spoilers through most of Season 4, most notably the Alistair-related episodes (duh).

Dean became an expert at compartmentalizing, after Alistair broke him in Hell. When he stepped down off the rack and took up Alistair's knife, he learned very quickly to stop thinking about what was going on, what he himself was doing.

Dean was already fairly good at repressing things, pushing his feelings down, down, deep enough to keep going. It wasn't healthy when he was topside, but it kept him functional. Ok, maybe not functional per se, unless being a functional alcoholic counted. Hey, it worked for Bobby. And his father. Well, less so for his father. John wasn't exceptionally functional as a human being in general, only as a hunter. Was that what Dean had become? When had he let himself turn into John?

Except unbeknownst to Dean, John hadn't been broken by Alistair on the rack like Dean had. He was the Righteous Man that had not fulfilled the prophecy, that did not break the First Seal. So he was rotting in the darkest, dankest cage currently, marinating until Alistair felt like another go. But then Dean got dragged to Hell, and Alistair had a shiny new toy to break in, in every sense of the word "break".

Although Dean had practice shutting off his emotions in life, nothing he had experienced thus far could prepare him for trying to suppress his still very human instincts for fight or flight, of horror at the things he witnessed while under Alistair's tutelage. He had to carefully school his expression not to give away his almost-overpowering revulsion every minute of every day, as Alistair never gave him a break from his schooling. It was a constant barrage of torture techniques demonstrated in excruciating detail, blood and guts and bodily fluids, watching time and time again while Alistair broke new souls.

And Alistair had an impressive array of techniques, too. Sometimes it was straight-out torture of the soul's physical manifestation of a body, cutting and slicing away until the poor wraith just burned out. Sometimes, Alistair would wheedle and cajole the soul, whispering terrible nothings into its ear, worming his way into the very depths of the soul's mind with his insidious lies and poison, using every hidden desire and secret against the soul until it, too, gave up the ghost and broke.

Other times, and these were the worst for Dean to witness (and Alistair knew it), rape was the tool of the day. Alistair would often perform these heinous acts himself, calmly explaining to Dean the whys and hows of breaking a soul through sexual violence. Alistair required that Dean stand nearby and watch every nuance of the assault. He also expected Dean to remember every word of the verbal lesson, which he gave at a moderate volume and pace, despite the wails and screams of the soul being violated.

Dean had to steel himself against feeling anything for these souls particularly. He rationalized every way he could think of - these souls deserved to be in Hell, they were bad people, criminals, rapists themselves, made shitty deals with crossroads demons in exchange for money or power. He couldn't bear the thought of these souls being regular people who just made mistakes, or suicide cases, or people who made deals for unselfish reasons like curing a loved one. Dean had even learned to suppress his jaw tick that normally presented when he was really angry, or frustrated, or powerless and putting on a brave face - the really desperate times. Alistair could read Dean like a book after thirty years in Hell, could decipher every facial tic, his body language, his very thoughts.

So little by little, Dean taught himself to turn off his own humanity, to make his thoughts into a blank slate, to show nothing, to feel nothing. Dean thought this was the way to beat Alistair, his only way to win. If he could just hold out long enough, maybe Alistair would tire of him, leave him alone, throw him in the pit to be tortured by lesser demons, ones that didn't have Alistair's skill and patience and utter sadism.

Dean was wrong. So very wrong. Alistair looked over all he had made Dean into, and it was good.


	2. Let It Bleed

The first time Dean used Alistair's knife to cut into a soul, his work was sloppy. That, he could forgive himself for. After all, up top all the slicing and hacking and chopping he'd done was a quick means to an end, to kill or incapacitate whatever monster he was trying to take out. He'd never deliberately cut into something, or someone, with the intent not to kill as quickly as possible. It wasn't supposed to be artful or cruel (well, maybe sometimes, if they really deserved it, let's be honest).

What troubled Dean, not that he would admit it, was that his work under Alistair at the beginning was ineffectual. Since he only knew how to kill, breaking a soul was not instinctive. He didn't have the natural ability at it like he did with being a hunter, nor the decades of training that his father had taught him. So he failed at that first soul, failed to break her. Alistair had to finish her off, taking the knife from Dean with a distinctively disappointed demeanor. Alistair made short work of the woman, mostly because he was bored and partly to provoke Dean's ego further.

"You see, son? It's not that hard. Maybe you're just not trying hard enough." Alistair rasped, turning away from the mutilated soul and wiping off the knife onto his already blood-soaked sleeve. Alistair slowly walked around Dean in a circle, seeming to ponder the possibilities. 

"Maybe... Maybe you changed your mind. Maybe you want back up on the rack, mmm?" Alistair whispered softly in Dean's ear, then pressed a soft, slow kiss onto his neck.

Dean shuddered but did not shrink away from the contact. That, he knew, he'd be punished for. He could get away with certain small tics, disguised acts of defiance or disgust, as long as he hid them as surprise or twitchiness. Instead, he played off his increasingly infrequent shudders as a cold chill or goose bumps.

"No. No, I don't want that." Dean replied, forcing his non-existent heartbeat to slow. Alistair's smile was oily, dirty with implied knowledge of Dean's thoughts. Alistair raised his eyebrow but didn't respond, just continued to circle Dean, running his hand possessively along Dean's torso, waist, and back as he moved.

"I swear, I tried. I do not want to go back up th-" Dean bit out quickly, but couldn't finish his statement. Just the idea of being strapped to Alistair's rack again, being forced to endure every imaginable (and previously unimaginable) type of violation again and again... Dean suppressed another shudder, steeling himself against the horror rising to the surface of his mind. Still so close, so recent. He might not be on the receiving end of torture anymore, but it wasn't that long ago, and his humanity hadn't burned out yet. He had just wanted, no needed, the pain to stop. Anything to make it stop. But "anything" was proving to be a harder feat to handle than Dean counted on.

"All right... All right." Alistair drawled, stopping behind Dean, hands resting on Dean's shoulders. "I believe you, Dean." Everything Alistair said sounded like the truth and a lie at the same time. Alistair squeezed his shoulders, and it reminded Dean of the pep talks he used to get from misguided teachers or school social workers every now and again. ("You just need to apply yourself, Dean. You can do so much better than C's. Don't you want a good future for yourself?") Dean always knew he had no future to plan for. But you can't tell people that; it upsets them for some reason, like you're going to kill yourself or something. Drama queens.

"The problem is, Dean-o," Alistair's words dripping acid and honey, "is that you're just not cutting it. Pardon the expression." Alistair chuckled at his own joke, dragging his hands down from Dean's shoulders, feeling down his muscular back, settling on his waist. There had been the tiniest bit of extra there when Dean first came to Hell, the telltale pudge of too many beers and burgers despite his active lifestyle. Now, after thirty years downstairs and uncountable terrors, Dean's physical form in Hell had lost muscle tone, lost some weight. He was gaunt, even.

Of course, this was all a manifestation of how Dean *felt* after all those years, since no one really has a body in Hell. You looked how you wanted to look, if you were aware enough. If you weren't, you looked how you felt. So Dean had looked like himself originally, but that had changed over time based on his subconscious perception of what his body must look like after withstanding the torture. Beaten down, skinnier, weaker, depressed and harrowed.

"I can do better," Dean asserted, making himself sound more sure than he felt. Subconsciously, he stood a little taller, puffed his chest out a fraction, took a slightly wider stance.

"Ooh, I *do* love it when you get all macho," Alistair purred, wrapping his arms around Dean's torso and pressing his body against Dean's back. "It's just so...adorable." Alistair licked the back of Dean's neck, enjoying how uncomfortable it made Dean. One day soon, if all went according to Alistair's plan, Dean would welcome these nice touches, even seek them out. But everything has its season. Alistair was nothing if not patient.

Alistair continued, "You remind me of myself, Dean, when I was new. So green, so innocent still, so eager to please my master." Dean chafed a little at this last part. He didn't have a master; Alistair was *not* his master. Would never be his master. Dean shook his head slightly in negation. He'd never submit, not willingly, not completely. Thirty years, three hundred years, it was never going to happen.

Dean never felt Alistair's hands move, didn't heard the snap of his own neck as he fell. There was no pain, only a brief moment of wonder, before everything went black.


	3. Sympathy for the Devil

Dean awoke peacefully and languidly stretched, eyes still closed. His hands flailed mid-air, and he couldn't move his legs. His eyes snapped open and for a moment, the disorientation made him nauseated. Dean closed his eyes against the sick feeling, taking a few moments to pay attention to his body's signals. His ankles felt uncomfortable, stretched and tight. His insides were heavy, pulled toward his head. His head hurt, like a migraine almost, all the blood and brains feeling squished against his skull.

Dean opened his eyes again, understanding now that he was suspended upside-down from some sort of contraption. He couldn't hear anything close by, only the far off screams and howls of normal Hell noises. He didn't see anyone - or anything - for that matter, but things weren't always what they seemed here. Dean knew that Alistair spied on him even when he was "alone", so he never truly was alone. And that was *not* comforting in a twisted way. It wasn't.

Dean lifted up and checked his footholds. Solid, unbreakable. He pulled on one leg, then the other. No movement. He was stuck. He stretched back out length-wise and looked below (above?) him. His hands couldn't touch the floor, they were about a foot away even reaching as far as he could. Dean sighed and resigned himself to hurry up and wait this out. Could be worse, he thought as he rubbed his neck, remembering his most recent death at Alistair's hand. At least he was "alive" and still had all his internal organs intact. So far, anyway. 

Dean got halfway through humming Zeppelin's "Houses of the Holy" before Alistair arrived, another soul in tow whose head was covered by a burlap sack. Sometimes the oldies were the goodies, to Alistair. Good old-fashioned torture techniques. Water-boarding, electrocution, peeling off fingernails one by one... with his teeth. Ok, so maybe Alistair took creative license with certain things.

Alistair strapped the random soul to a flat table in the room that was outfitted with leather straps for that very purpose (this wasn't the first time Alistair had brought "playtoys" to sessions with Dean; in fact, it happened more often than not since Dean came off the rack - practice makes perfect, indeed). Dean paid little to no attention; it didn't behoove him to show any concern or interest in these tragic beings. They would all end up the same, broken and eventually disintegrated by Alistair's, or now Dean's, ministrations.

Alistair waltzed over toward Dean, humming a show tune. "I'm singin' in the rain..." Alistair crooned, twirling around the suspended Dean, pushing him so that Dean swung back and forth like a swing set. "Just singin' in the rain, what a glorious feeling..." Alistair leaned down and patted Dean's cheek. "Now I'm going to take some liberties with the lyrics, I'm sure you'll allow me," he explained cheerfully. "Your suffering's in my heart, and I'm ready for looooooove." Alistair finished his song and dance with an elaborate tap-step-twirl and a bow.

Dean waited patiently for this little display to end, a neutral expression on his face. Alistair looked up, still bowed at the waist, and pouted. "What? No applause? I thought you liked show tunes, Dean-my-boy."

Dean smirked and clapped slowly, showing his smart-ass attitude. "I think I'd be more receptive if I wasn't currently Bram-Stokering over here," he sassed, crossing his arms across his chest, unintentionally looking even more like the bat he had just compared himself to.

Alistair laughed, to Dean's chagrin. It seemed like nothing Dean said or did would piss him off, despite Dean's best efforts. It irritated Dean greatly (and secretly thrilled him? Wait, what? No!). He'd always been able to annoy anyone, humans and monsters alike. But not Alistair. It was like he was immune to Dean's charms. No, wait, that's not what Dean meant.

Alistair interrupted Dean's train of thought. "Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. Whatever am I going to do with you?" Alistair patted Dean's hip, then snapped his fingers, releasing the shackles keeping Dean suspended upside-down. Dean came crashing down on his head first, then his neck and back thudded painfully onto the stone floor, followed by his deadweight legs and feet swinging over last and landing heavily.

"Ungh!" Dean exclaimed, staying lying down on the floor for a moment, assessing his injuries. He rolled over and got to his feet, one hand on his lower back. It seemed like he was okay, no major issues from falling. Walk it off, Winchester. Dean faced Alistair, who was patiently waiting, a deceptively benevolent smile on his sharp-featured face. His face also lied while telling the truth. A smile was bad, a frown was... worse. Nevermind, scratch that. Alistair didn't have any expressions that amounted to anything other than evil.

"I'm going to do you a favor, Dean, so I want you to remember that," Alistair warned passive-aggressively. Dean didn't show any outward acknowledgement of this, but he did note the warning. He'd learned to pay excruciating attention to every nuance of Alistair's moods, because it didn't pay to slip up and let down his guard. Alistair could turn violent and vindictive at the tip of a hat, that went without saying, so Dean tried to avoid problems before they even started. Kind of like when his dad went through some of his more severe drinking bouts. It paid to be hyper-aware of anything that could go wrong.

"I'm going to tell you why I'm in such a good mood today," Alistair said. He held his hands out to Dean, palms up, like a lover asking to hold hands. Dean inwardly sighed but complied, placing his hands in Alistair's. Alistair smiled his evil-Grinch smile and nodded his pleasure briefly before continuing. "I received some *really* good news today. News about *you*, pumpkin." Alistair squeezed Dean's hands, pulling him toward the briefly-forgotten-about soul strapped to the table.

"You know, your father, the infamous John Winchester, made quite a name for himself down here. A hundred years. After each session, I'd make him the same offer I made you. I put down my blade if he picked one up." Alistair stopped beside the table and leaned against it, pulling Dean into his embrace as he spoke. Dean gritted his teeth and tried not to crush Alistair's hands deliberately, not to pulverize every single bone one by one, then tear apart every sinew and muscle and tendon inside them, pulling off the flesh with his teeth and spitting it out--

"But... he said nein." Alistair continued, again interrupting Dean's thoughts. "Each and every time. Damned if I couldn't break him. Pulled out all the stops. But John, he was... made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. But then came you, sweetheart. My Dean. Mmm. I was up against it again! But, daddy's little girl... he broke. He broke in *thirty*! Mm, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?" Dean tensed up defensively.

Alistair stroked Dean's back soothingly. "Don't worry, Deanie, you're *exactly* the man that *I* want you to be." Dean's nostrils flared and his hands curled into fists reflexively against Alistair's side. He quickly realized his mistake and corrected, rubbing his thumbs against Alistair's waist, trying to make it seem like he was grateful to Alistair for the compliment, when nothing could be further from the truth. Thankfully, Alistair seemed to buy it, distracted by his own happy thoughts. He squeezed Dean into a hug gently, tucking Dean's head under his chin.

It's odd that Alistair was taller than Dean somehow. Physically speaking, that shouldn't have been the case, but Dean's unwitting submission to Alistair affected his physical form by becoming slightly diminutive to Alistair in stature. Not that Dean noticed this. But Alistair had, and smiled as he continued his explanation. "It was supposed to be your father. He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end... it was you."

"Bring what on?" Dean asked, confused. It was so hard to concentrate when Alistair was this close. When Alistair *made* him be this close. It was disgusting, and disturbing, and... warm. Too warm. Sure, they were in Hell, but why was Alistair's body so warm? It reminded Dean of his father, big and strong and always running hotter than normal people. He used to joke that it was the hunter's blood in him, although he didn't come from a line of hunters, not like their mom had... 

Dean mentally shook himself out of his own reverie to pay attention to Alistair. Losing track of what was going on was never a good thing. Must be vigilant. Although the heat of Alistair's body was making him sleepy, lethargic even. Dean wondered if he closed his eyes for a second, if Alistair would notice. If it would make him mad or pleased. Alistair was still talking, though, and Dean eventually picked up the thread.

"...Every night, the same offer, remember? Same as your father. And finally you said, sign me up. Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that... weeping bitch. That was the first seal." Alistair sighed happily.

Dean's gut clenched in horror. "You're lying." Dean lost himself enough that he outright disrespected Alistair, pulling away from him as much as he could, given that Alistair was still holding him around the waist, keeping him close.

Alistair intoned reverently, "And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break." Dean stared at Alistair, terror gripping him. "We had to break the first seal before any others. Only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Top of the order, the front of the line."

"When we win," Alistair said dreamily, "when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you... Dean Winchester." Dean closed his eyes and slumped his shoulders, dread filling him. Alistair clucked sympathetically. "Believe me, son, I wouldn't lie about this. It's kind of a... religious... sort of thing with me."

Alistair tugged the distraught and therefore distracted Dean back into his arms and stroked his hair. "And that's why I'm happy today, Dean. I haven't felt like this in... centuries, sweet boy. So to reward you, I brought you a present." Alistair pulled back and disentangled himself from Dean, gesturing to the soul on the table. Alistair walked to the head of the table, and pulled off the burlap sack covering the soul's head.

Dean gasped and staggered backward. The soul on the table was John.


	4. Like a Virgin

Dean turned and retched, spitting up bile. There shouldn't even be bile in his body, since he didn't eat or drink anymore, his organs didn't need to function, shouldn't produce anything like bile. But this was Hell, and Hell is what it is.

"Aw, Dean, you disappoint me so," Alistair practically crooned, delighted at Dean's reaction, despite his contradictory words. He knew Dean wasn't fully broken yet, and he also knew that Dean thought he was. Alistair called this Phase 2 - break the broken. This stage was even better than the first one, in Alistair's opinion, more fun due to the higher level of cruelty and sadism. He was thrilled to get Dean this far down the path to complete and utter ruin in just thirty years, and planned to spend the next thirty on this part, carefully re-breaking Dean again and again into smaller and smaller pieces, so all that would be left when he was done is finely-milled dust. Then in Phase 3, Alistair would combine Dean's dust with Alistair's blood and form his new Dean from the clay of his brokenness. And after another long stint in the fiery Pit, his very own Warrior of Hell would rise up like a demonic phoenix from the proverbial ashes.

Alistair sighed happily at his thoughts. This set of thousand years were over, Satan would be released from his prison. The impending Apocalypse, Dean's transformation progress... This truly was a blessed time. Praise Lucifer.


	5. Bad Moon Rising

Dean finally got a hold of himself and was able to look at the soul on the table - John, his father, Dad - without blanching. He regulated his breathing to an even in-and-out, adjusted his stance to soldier-neutral, but arms loose by his sides instead of behind his back, hands unclenched. This was the standard requirement for Alistair, in order not to earn his disapproval right off the bat. Earning his approval required much more, things Dean wasn't sure if he was capable of... yet.

Dean studied John, or John's soul's manifestation, really. Unlike Dean, whose physical form had changed during his stint in Hell so far, John seemed the same outwardly as he had in life. Strong, strapping, whole. Sure, he looked exhausted and haggard, like he was just off an extra-long bender, but for the most part, he looked just like the Dad that Dean remembered from above (including the bender). It had been a long time since Dean had seen John, since he had sold his soul to save Dean's life and went to Hell a few years before Dean did the same to save Sam. And then there were these last thirty years in Hell, where surprisingly, Alistair had never taken John's form to torture him with. He had taken just about everyone else's form that Dean cared about - Bobby telling him what a disappointment Dean was, Sam asking Dean why he abandoned him, Ellen's accusing glare, Jo being pissed at him in general, Yellow Eyes threatening to kill everyone he loved - the list went on and on.

But it had never been John. Dean wondered if that was because Alistair was saving up for this moment, for the real thing instead of just a trick, like the others had been. Dean wouldn't put it past Alistair; in fact, the more and more he thought about it, Dean felt the truth of it. He kicked himself mentally for not thinking of it sooner, for not wondering *why* Alistair never tortured him as John, for not mentally preparing himself for this somehow. He needed to be two steps ahead of Alistair, if he was going to survive this, not one step behind, struggling to simply keep up.

Dean let out a steadying breath and finally looked over at Alistair, who had been silently observing him as he looked at John. John, who hadn't spoken or tried to communicate with Dean in any way thus far. John just laid there, not moving, not trying to fight or escape, not even pleading with his eyes. It was like he was drugged, or maybe he didn't recognize Dean? Dean steeled his heart for the situation ahead, which he knew was going to be bad, and slipped into his calm, detached, and slightly cocky mask.

"So, my son, here we all are. What ever shall we do to pass the time?" Alistair teased Dean, picking up a scalpel from the veritable arsenal of torture implements on a table nearby. He ran it down John's cheek, and Dean could hear the rasping noise of the blade against John's stubble. It reminded him of watching his Dad shave in random hotel bathrooms growing up, wishing for the day he himself would be a Man and get to shave, too.

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Whatever. I'm sure you have a plan already, so why don't you just tell me?" Dean looked away, as if bored by the proceedings. He thought about affecting a yawn, but he didn't want to push it too much.

Alistair tsked with a frown. "Oh, Dean, now that's just being rude. You should show me more respect." Alistair pressed the tip of the scalpel into John's neck, right into the artery. John's neck began spurting blood quickly, and although John gasped and winced at the pain, he still didn't speak. Dean flinched, but stopped himself from lurching forward toward his father.

"After all," Alistair continued, "I brought you this wonderful gift. I had planned to take another run at Johnny boy here. You see, I've been keeping him in a very hot, very dark hole for a few decades, to season him. I planned to eventually bring him out and try again to break him. But now," Alistair smiled adoringly at Dean, who shivered despite himself, "now that you, my sweet boy, took over for daddy dearest as the Righteous Man and shed blood in Hell, breaking the First Seal, now I don't need John anymore."

Alistair let this sink in for effect, watching Dean closely for signs of any reaction. None so far. Curiously none. He was deliberately hiding his reactions, keeping it in.

"So. Now that means we can have some real fun with him, without having to worry about making pesky deals for him to come off the rack. We can break and break and break him, until he really breaks. Until he's no more." Alistair was gleeful, both at the prospect of taking out the last 130 years on John, and at how this would affect Dean (for the worse, he was sure).

Dean shrugged again. He had decided to take a page from Alistair's book; don't let anything Alistair said bother him. Or at least don't show it. He had had enough of what Alistair could *do* to him physically, which is why he finally agreed to come down off the rack and torture souls himself - to escape from the unending physical torment. But he could play this game, he'd been doing it his whole life. Pretend it doesn't bother you, push it all down, tuck it away into the farthest corners of your mind so you can keep on keepin' on. The only different was, topside he had drowned his feelings in whiskey and women to try to forget. He wasn't privileged enough down here yet to earn those rewards.

"Sure, boss. Sounds good." Dean managed to sound blasé. He continued to study John's face, which was once again calm, despite the blood still dribbling out of his neck. That was preferable to looking at Alistair. It was easier that way and Dean could draw inspiration from John at the same time. Be like Dad. Be strong. Make him proud.

Alistair narrowed his eyes slightly at this as he watched Dean. He knew Dean was full of it and Alistair wanted him to stop the pretense. So he smiled benignly at Dean, and waited until Dean looked up as he was taught to do. Even if it took several minutes. Alistair could afford to be patient; he could do this all day and night, he didn't need to eat or sleep or anything else other than cause Dean grief and pain.

When Dean finally submitted to the stare-down from Alistair and raised his head enough to meet Alistair's patiently cruel gaze, Alistair calmly and swiftly plunged the scalpel fist deep into John's pectoral muscle and let go. Dean did gasp at this, while John howled and tried to buckle inward at the attack but ended up merely struggling against the leather straps holding him down. John quit thrashing after a moment, lying back and breathing steadily. He still didn't speak or acknowledge his tormentor in any way, nor did he look at Dean.

Dean put his game-face back on, although he could feel the tic in his jaw working. His eyes flashed his anger at Alistair, who chuckled and strolled around the far end of the table toward Dean. His laugh made Dean even more angry, but he tried to tamp it down, if not for his own sake, then for John's.

"There you are, Dean-o. Glad to have you back," Alistair prodded and poked at Dean's facade. "We're going to have soo much fun together with Daddy Winchester. I just can't wait until we're standing over his bloody and broken body together, knives in hand." Alistair wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, under his shoulders. Alistair licked the nape of Dean's neck first, then nuzzled his cheek against the back of Dean's neck.

"What I can't decide is... what should I have you do to Dear John first?" Alistair lightly thumped his thumbs against Dean's chest, as if in contemplation, while laying his chin on the top of Dean's shoulder. Dean prepared to respond and took a deep breath in.

"Now, now, I know you're anxious to weigh in, and I appreciate that, Dean," Alistair confided in Dean's ear. "But I know *exactly* what I want you to do." Alistair let his statement float around them for long moments, waiting for the anxiety in Dean to build. Once he could feel the tension in Dean's body, he grinned evilly to himself and dropped the bomb.

"I want you... to sodomize your father."


	6. Abandon All Hope...

Dean's normal quick wit escaped him for a moment; he was too stunned and repulsed.

"Hell no! There's no way in hell I'd do that!" Dean eventually ground out, ripping himself away from Alistair's embrace, as it were, and glared at Alistair with undisguised anger and horror.

Alistair smirked. "Hell... Yes." Alistair nodded sagely. "See what I did there? How about another? You will, Dean. And there *is* a way in Hell you'll do it, and a where, and a how. See how much fun this is?" Alistair clapped his hands gleefully, like the proverbial kid in the dead, rotten, candy store.

Dean shook his head again resolutely. "I won't."

Alistair tsked chidingly. "Now, Dean, you're *perilously* close to making me angry," he warned, picking up a stiletto knife from his collection of tools. He sauntered toward Dean, who was rooted to the same spot near where John's soul was strapped to the table. The scalpel still stuck out awkwardly from John's pectoral muscle. Dean was looking down at it, but blankly, like it hadn't occurred to him to take it out yet.

Alistair slipped up behind Dean and slid the stiletto slowly but firmly into his left kidney. The knife went in to the hilt smoothly, as through butter. Dean grunted and collapsed forward, over the body of his father. Alistair moved with him, positioning himself directly behind Dean's bent form. Alistair kicked Dean's legs apart and stepped between them, pressing his half-hard cock into Dean's ass while twisting the knife inside Dean's kidney slightly.

"You see," Alistair hissed, thrusting against Dean's jeans-clad ass and poking the stiletto around inside Dean with every thrust, "It's either you do it or I will, Dean-my-boy." Dean groaned in pain (and he was *not* enjoying the pain nor Alistair dominating him, he *wasn't*) as Alistair continued. "And I don't mean that I will strip the flesh off your bones, tie you to my rack, and make you watch while I defile your Daddy, in every way possible. I mean that I will do it *as* you, take your form, so that good old John thinks his own son is ripping him apart. And then I'll take a turn on him as Sam, and Bobby, and every other person he's ever even remotely cared about."

Dean hung his head in defeat, resting his forehead on his dad's bicep. He breathed in John's scent, let himself pretend he wasn't facing this horrible dilemma. After a moment, Dean realized he was still being rocked into the table by Alistair's insistent thrusting. Although by now, Alistair had gotten fully hard, probably delighting in Dean's misery. Bastard. Dean absolutely did not have half-chub himself, not even a little bit. He reached down and ground the heel of his palm into his crotch, willing Little Dean to behave.

Alistair noticed the movement and chuckled throatily over Dean's shoulder. "Why, Dean, is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" He slid the stiletto knife out of Dean's kidney, leaving a pulsating trail of blood in its wake. Alistair leaned over and licked inside the puncture hole, pushing his tongue into it. Dean moaned piteously, from pain and arousal both. "So, what's it going to be, Dean?"

Dean morosely contemplated his options. On the one side, he'd have to do unspeakable things to his own father, his hero, his idol. Dean had done... things... to other souls already, under Alistair's tutelage. But never to anyone he'd known. He never considered that there might be souls in Hell that he knew personally, other than a few demons he'd sent back here while topside. He had never considered his dad's fate after John had sold his soul and died, had never imagined that John would still be here, much less be one of Alistair's pets. It was gut-wrenching to imagine that John had gone through everything that Dean had on the rack, maybe more. But John hadn't broken like Dean had, hadn't... done the things that Dean had done so far. The things Dean was supposed to do now to him.

Dean shook his head and looked away from his father before him. His only other choice was to let Alistair's perverted nature loose on his dad, hand his father over to be raped and tortured again by Alistair. Not only that, but in Dean's own image. His father would think it was Dean no matter what. And then he would think it was Sam. That was even worse, that Alistair would tarnish John's memories of Sammy. No, Dean couldn't let that happen.

It's like Alistair knew the moment when Dean made his choice. He drew away from Dean and stood back, licking the blood and liver cells off the knife he had pulled out of Dean. Mmm, tasted like desperation and utter dejection. Alistair waited patiently for Dean's answer, completely transfixed by the agony stamped into his features. Even his posture was broken down, defeated.

Dean gave a long, deep sigh, then stiffened his spine and looked Alistair in the eyes. "I'll do it," Dean caved, but sounding all for the world like he was only agreeing to donating his (now-holey) kidney to an undeserving recipient. Alistair looked expectant, and Dean knew he was waiting for more.

Dean clarified with only a slight tremble in his voice. "I'll rape my father."

Alistair smiled and held his arms out wide, not surprised at all when Dean walked into them without hesitation and let himself be embraced by Alistair. Dean tucked his head under Alistair's chin and wept silently, letting Alistair (wanting him to?) pet his hair and coo wordless, sweet nothings into his ear.


	7. The Devil You Know

What Dean didn't know is that he'd raped John before. Or, at least that's what John thought. Well, John *mostly* knew it hadn't really been Dean, that it was merely Alistair wearing Dean's face. Or Sam's face, or Mary's. John had been tortured, beaten, and raped by countless visages from his past, as well as Alistair himself and any number of demons that Alistair brought to the party. The fact that he knew this didn't make it easy by any means to deal with the reality of it, though. There was always some niggling doubt in his mind about what was real and what wasn't real down here. 

But John was made of stern stuff and he was smart. After fifteen or twenty years, he'd learned to shut off his mind from his body, to retreat inward, so deep into himself that he was practically catatonic. His body still reacted to pain, and the occasional pleasure-cum-torture, but he'd be damned, quite literally, if he'd let Alistair break him. John trapped himself willingly in his mind palace, and thus he never broke. Better to be dead to the world than soul-dead. After forty years of trying to break him, Alistair got frustrated and bored with John's recalcitrance and let his minions do what they pleased with him. But no one else was as good as Alistair, so being tortured by them was like a vacation for John, and only occasionally would Alistair drag him out of the pit like an old favorite toy rediscovered and start all over again.

What John didn't know yet was that this Dean really was his Dean, his eldest boy, his soldier. He'd always been able to keep what was happening to his body at a distance because he could see through whatever face Alistair wore. Alistair may have looked like Dean, but John knew his boy. Alistair hadn't been inside Dean's head yet during John's early years in Hell, so he didn't know Dean inside and out, didn't know his insecurities, his fears, his memories. So he couldn't ever really *be* Dean, not enough to fool John.

The only thing Alistair didn't know was how long it would take John to realize that this time, it really was Dean. That Dean was truly in Hell, had been for quite some time, had been worked over by Alistair exclusively for decades. Alistair wondered what would happen when John recognized his boy, distorted as Dean was. Would John start reacting to stimuli again? Would the son be the destruction of the father? Alistair practically rubbed his hands in glee. It would be so gratifying to break both Winchesters at the same time, to finally see the fruition of all his planning and manipulation come to pass.

Alistair's dick didn't get hard anymore unless he meant it to, hadn't for over a century. His ~tool~ was simply that - a tool to be used for pain or pleasure. Whether Alistair was inflicting pain or pleasure upon his victim, it always brought Alistair pleasure, physical and/or emotional, and always caused the other party pain, again physical and/or emotional. It really was a win-win for him, and a lose-lose for his victim. Despite this, Alistair felt himself surprisingly get hard thinking about Dean breaking John or possibly himself and Dean breaking John *together*.

Alistair was lying next to a sleeping Dean, who was subconsciously presenting his backside as the "little spoon" to Alistair. This made Alistair smile, and he turned to spoon Dean, pressing his hard-on into Dean's spine. Although he didn't wake up, Dean moaned slightly and pressed back into the contact, wiggling his delicious ass minutely. 

After the stressful and emotionally exhausting events of the day, Alistair had led Dean out of the workroom where John still lay, to retire for the evening and rest up for the main event. Alistair had undressed Dean gently, and tucked him into bed, ignoring Dean's half-hearted protests. Alistair knew what was best for Dean. Dean just needed to submit to it, to give in, and he could become Alistair's right-hand man eventually. Which came with more than a few perks, being second-in-command of Alistair's realm in Hell.

Alistair kissed the back of Dean's neck, which made the sleeping man shiver and snuggle deeper into the covers, still wedged against Alistair. Dean was a heavy sleeper these days, probably because Alistair made Dean feel safe, comforted, valued, approved of, and loved. Things severely lacking in his life previously. Alistair shook his head and sighed wistfully. It was almost too easy. All the best soldiers had daddy issues. And Alistair was taking full advantage of that fact.


	8. Sex and Violence

Dean awoke slowly, stretching languorously and yawning broadly. He felt rested, almost peaceful - as close as he was ever liable to get, anyway - and he let out a sigh, turning over to grouse lovingly at Sammy to get up, that he could take the first shower. Dean opened his eyes, and instead of the crappy motel room he expected to see, with Sam still lightly snoring in his bed across the way, he was met with Alistair's hawklike features and similarly hawklike gaze. They were lying on the bed, facing each other from about a foot and a half away, Dean lying on his left side, Alistair on his right.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Alistair cooed, reaching over to ruffle Dean's hair. Dean almost jerked away from the contact, but remembered 'his place' just in time to avoid invoking Alistair's ire. "Someone's been lazing the day away, when we have *so much* work to do!" Alistair practically giggled, he was so full of mirth.

"Umm, sorry?" Dean tried, also trying to recall what he had done to make Alistair so giddy, if it was even Dean's doing. Dean could remember having been hung upside-down by his ankles, remembered Alistair telling Dean about the first seal, and how that had mentally gutted him. He remembered Alistair revealing that it was John's soul on the rack - oh, god, *Dad* - and he remembered Alistair telling Dean that he wanted Dean to rape his father. Dean sucked in a breath at that, trying not to let anything show in his eyes, since Alistair was still paying very close attention.

And then it hit Dean like Alistair's knife in his kidney. Dean had *agreed* to rape John. His father. His reason for existing for the first twenty-seven years of his life. Dean closed his eyes momentarily, feigning sleepiness, so he could collect his thoughts without Alistair noticing and punishing him.

"No matter," Alistair waved his hand dismissively. "You needed your rest, poor thing. You had a very trying day yesterday, didn't you, my boy?" Alistair petted Dean's hair and wrapped his large, bony hand around the back of Dean's head to pull him closer into his embrace. Dean inched over on the bed, lying in the crook of Alistair's arm. Dean gulped and nodded in response.

"I thought so," Alistair continued, also nodding. "Besides, technically, we have allll the time in the world, don't we, pet?" Alistair kissed the top of Dean's head. 

Dean should have been uncomfortable lying against Alistair this way. This was how he held women after sex, intimate. He should have wanted to recoil from Alistair's touch, for many, many reasons. He should be more upset that when he woke up, it wasn't to a groggy Sammy and a dingy motel room. He definitely should not feel special because of Alistair's singular attention and his stupid, annoying (sweet?) pet names.

Dean nodded again, against Alistair's too-thin chest, knowing this was the right response, without even really recalling the question. Dean wondered if demons ever ate for pleasure. He knew they didn't need to eat, didn't need water or sex or any of the things a man needs up-top. But he wondered if he cooked a good, decent meal for Alistair, and if it happened often enough, if Alistair's demon form would put on weight, fill out some, instead of being so damn thin. Wasn't right. Dean wouldn't let him get this emaciated again, if he could affect it at all. He'd have to ask Alistair...

Dean tilted his head up and left toward Alistair's face, his mouth open to ask his question. Alistair leaned down and took Dean's mouth with his own, pressing his thin lips to Dean's fuller ones, and taking advantage of Dean's already-open mouth to slide his tongue inside. Dean gasped in surprise, then moaned into Alistair's mouth. Dean pressed himself closer to Alistair and deepened the kiss, clutching at Alistair's long-sleeve shirt with his right hand.

Alistair smiled against Dean's lips, thrilled with Dean's reaction. He was coming along swimmingly, his little monster. Time for an experiment. Alistair picked back up where he left off inside Dean's mouth, while running his hand down the back of Dean's arm. Alistair waited a moment, then dug his newly-created talons into Dean's arm, digging deep enough to draw blood.

Dean groaned lewdly without breaking the kiss, pushing himself against Alistair desperately. Alistair noted with evil delight that Dean was hard against his thigh. From the kiss, from the pain, from both. Yes, Dean was definitely coming along nicely.


	9. Jus in Bello

After a short time rolling around in bed, and after Alistair achieved his own orgasm (but Dean didn't get to come, of course; what's the fun in letting someone get release when you can withhold gratification and get a strung-out, co-dependent slave out of it?), Alistair pushed Dean forcibly out of bed and told him to go shower. Normally, Alistair would have just zapped him clean and perfect, but he wanted Dean to go through the ritual of cleansing himself, in preparation for what lay ahead.

Dean knew better than to grumble about not getting off, and then being rudely kicked out of bed. Truth be told, Dean actually enjoyed not getting off while making someone else come, regularly, if he could manage it. Most sexual partners would notice after a time or two, and insist on his turn, but not Alistair. He knew, but he never forced Dean to take his turn. Dean liked that, liked selfish partners in bed. Then he could experiment with how long he could go without, almost like torturing himself. Dean knew he was damaged; he just didn't care anymore.

Dean showered quickly and efficiently. It didn't pay to keep Alistair waiting too long. When he got out, he dried off in solitude - Alistair had vanished somewhere, probably taking care of business somewhere else in Hell - and got dressed just as quickly in the clean clothes he found waiting for him. He never wanted for anything with Alistair around; it was like Alistair could anticipate all his needs before Dean even knew what he needed. Dean had never been taken care of before in this way, so completely, by someone else. It would be disconcerting if Dean just flat-out didn't appreciate it so much after the thirty years of being on the rack. He was grateful for every moment he didn't have to be up there anymore, and even more grateful that for the most part, except for him having to break other souls, his life was pretty peaceful.

"I forget sometimes that you clean up so good," Alistair said from behind Dean, running his hand possessively down Dean's back from his shoulder blades to his ass. Dean tilted his head back and Alistair chuckled and rewarded him by kissing the side of Dean's neck. Dean hummed in satisfaction and Alistair pulled away, turning Dean around to face him.

"Now," Alistair spoke, looking directly into Dean's eyes. "Now, it's time." Alistair didn't have to be more specific, Dean knew exactly what he meant. There was no delaying the inevitable any longer. It was time for Dean to violate his father.

Dean locked down his personal feelings about the matter, locked them down tight. Deeper than he'd ever suppressed anything before, and that was saying something. Dean figured Alistair was just screwing with him again, that it wasn't really John down there, that it was just some random soul made to resemble his dad. So Dean would nut up and do this, and maybe he'd get some reprieve from Alistair on the torturing front. Maybe he'd promote Dean to supervising or something, so he could stop doing the dirty work himself.

Dean nodded somberly at Alistair and Alistair smiled broadly, pleased. Alistair snapped his bony fingers and they were instantly transported to the torture room, John still languishing, strapped down on the table. Dean was surprised to see furniture in the room that he'd never seen in there before - a bed, a living room comfy chair, and a weird wooden sawhorse-looking thing with fabric bumper pads on one side and wide, leather straps on the other side as well as the top. He raised his eyebrows in askance at Alistair. Alistair merely smiled and shrugged as if to say, you never know.

Dean turned back to John and studied him, planning his strategy. Couldn't fuck him the way he was now, strapped face-up to the table by his ankles and wrists. He'd have to get him off the table first, maybe bend him over the end of the table, so he could tie down his wrists again? Alistair would be pissed if Dean let John escape. Not that there was anywhere for him to go, of course; it was just the principle of the thing. Dean suspected John was drugged, so he probably wouldn't put up too much of a fight, anyway, but you could never be too careful. There was also the question of lubrication. Alistair hadn't used any in the early days with Dean, but he was a demon and didn't have to worry about chafing his own junk. Also, Dean wasn't as physically strong as Alistair, wouldn't be able to power through it with sheer muscle. If John was drugged, at least he'd probably be a little loose down there, not tense, not clenching up. But if not... Dean looked around again, seeing the lube he wanted on the tools table next to his favorite knife. Dean flashed a grateful smile at Alistair, who nodded beatifically back.

Dean moved to the head of the table, looking down at his dad's face, which was upside down from this angle. Dean furrowed his brow. Ok, so now he had a plan, but Dean couldn't figure out how he was going to maneuver John off the table and against the end of it by himself. If he unstrapped John's ankles, he might fight to get away. Same with his wrists, but worse to give John the use of his hands and upper body. Dean glanced up and saw Alistair across the table from him, standing at John's feet, hands merely resting on top of John's ankle straps. Dean understood then that Alistair was going to help him with this part, was waiting for direction from *Dean* for once. Alistair nodded at Dean, signaling his readiness.

"Ok, so here's what we're going to do," started Dean haltingly. "If you can untie his ankles for me, I'll untie his wrists, then we'll stand him up and move him to this end of the table. Then you hold him in place, sorta bent over the table like this," Dean demonstrated, bending over so he was leaning over John's face, "while I go re-tie his wrists to the table." Dean looked up at Alistair for his response (hoping for approval), still prostrated over his dad's form, a subconscious deferral to Alistair. The demon nodded his approval, relieving Dean no small amount. Alistair could have snapped his fingers and transferred John to Dean's desired position, but he wanted to experience this with Dean, to help him, to take the long route instead of the short. It would only cement their growing bond further.

They carried out Dean's plan with no hiccups. John didn't move like he was drugged or drunk, more like he was sleepy. Like a child at bedtime - go use the bathroom, then brush your teeth, now go to bed, Sammy. They manhandled John easily and strapped his wrists down again. Dean stood back and was pleased with his plan having worked. Except... shit. John's legs were still free. He could decide to start fighting back at any moment and Dean didn't want to get kicked in the nuts when he attempted to mount John. Dean frowned and tilted his head, looking closer at the table. Was that...? It was. There were ankle straps on either table leg (thanks to Alistair just creating them, unbeknownst to Dean), perfect. Dean nodded at Alistair to get John's right ankle while Dean strapped the other in place. They both finished at the same time and looked up at each other, and smiled. A shared task well done.

Dean stood from kneeling and stepped back. Oh, shit, another problem. He'd left all of John's clothes on. Jeans, t-shirt, long-sleeved flannel shirt, boots. Fuck. Dean shrugged. He would just have to cut them off. Not like Alistair couldn't repair them afterward. Dean walked over to the tools table and grabbed a pair of scissors, long and tapered, like tailoring shears. There really was everything he could possibly think of using to torture someone on this table, and then some. Dean got to work removing John's clothing, starting with the flannel, then the t-shirt, then the jeans. Those were tougher - it took some work to cut through denim - but soon John was left in his boxers and boots. Dean snorted at the sight and bent down to remove John's shoes and socks. Finally, all that was left for Dean to remove was John's boxers. He didn't give himself time to think about it, Dean just cut those off, too, feeling the metal of the scissors hot in his hand.

Dean had seen his dad naked before, plenty of times. Having to share showers when he was small because there wasn't enough hot water to go around; on hunts where things went sideways (and when didn't they?) and John had to be patched up all over; skinny dipping in creeks or rivers when money was really tight and they had to camp outside for a while; the rare times a sleepy and sleep-deprived Dean had accidentally stumbled into the bathroom of their motel room and John was in there, jerking off ("Goddamnit, Dean, you're supposed to knock! Get the hell outta here!"), and Dean would jump out of his skin trying to obey quick enough and slam the door, waking up Sam. So Dean knew his dad's body well enough, knew his major scars and his musculature. He looked the same as Dean remembered, maybe with a few new scars here and there, nothing big. Nothing like Dean would expect after 100 years down Here.

Dean grabbed the lube off the implement table and quickly shucked his own clothes. Make it quick, make it as painless as possible (within reason, Alistair was watching and evaluating him, he knew, and would expect a certain amount of brutality, he was sure), get through it. Dean stepped up behind his old man and flipped open the cap of the lube, intending to grease himself and then John, so that John would be close to ready right before Dean pushed himself in. He didn't plan on opening John up slowly, like he knew he should do. It was a dick move, but he figured Alistair would think that was too soft-hearted. So if Dean just shoved in and got it over with, he might be done quicker than if he took his time to prep John and then fuck him.

"Now, Dean... Tsk, tsk." Alistair admonished, coming to stand behind Dean, making full body contact with him, his front to Dean's back. "What *do* you think you're doing?"

"Uhhh... I'm lubing up?" Dean stammered, confused. What had he done wrong already?

Alistair shook his head disapprovingly. Dean could feel it behind him, against the back of his neck. "No, no, dear boy. That's cheating," Alistair said, his voice heavy with disappointment in Dean (damnit).

Dean gulped. Shit, so no lube, either? Alistair certainly wasn't making this easy on him whatsoever. "Oh. Ok. I'll put the lube back." Dean didn't want to pull away from Alistair unless he was allowed; he didn't want to get into any more trouble.

Alistair chuckled darkly. "Oh, my sweet boy. That's not what I meant."

Dean scrunched up his face, really confused now. "Then what did you mean?" Dean asked a little impertinently. Alistair coughed pointedly. "I'm sorry. I mean, what am I doing wrong... Sir?" Dean back-pedaled quickly.

Alistair smiled against Dean's back. "Better." Dean sighed in relief, his shoulders sagging slightly. Alistair walked around Dean to lean against the table beside John, and pulled Dean toward him in a mockery of their previous chat when he first revealed John to Dean. However, this time, he held Dean around the waist so he could watch Dean's reaction to his next words.

"You're not going to simply bend your father over, stick it in, and be done. That would be cheating, sweet boy." Alistair paused, watching an array of emotions cross Dean's face - confusion, to basic understanding, to mildly disgruntled, to a flash of anger, then back to confusion - while he anxiously awaited Alistair's instructions.

Alistair rubbed his thumbs in circles against Dean's waist where his hands rested, comforting him even as he plunged the verbal knife in. Alistair repressed his glee when he dropped the bomb. "You have to take your time, woo him, win him over with words and soft caresses. Use that talented mouth of yours."

Alistair let himself grin now, his cruel, pale slash of a mouth stretched wide with his wicked joy. "Basically, you have to make him want it. Kind of like I did with you."

Dean's mouth literally fell open in surprise and he had no response, no words to convey his shock, outrage, denial. Alistair not only wanted him to have sex with his own father, but to *make love* to him. Dean turned and heaved, but only a dribble of bile bubbled out of the corner of his mouth. There was almost nothing left inside him to expel anymore. Soon there would be nothing left at all.


	10. Two Minutes to Midnight

Dean clutched the tops of his knees, bent over in a crouch. He had only heaved the one time, but he stayed hunched over, breathing deeply and letting his overwhelming thoughts crash over him like a tidal wave. Staying low was a defensive posture; keep your center of gravity low and you might not get knocked over. Pretending to be sicker than he was also gave him extra time to deal with the latest uppercut from Alistair without letting Alistair see him work through it. Hiding anything from Alistair was not easy and Dean had learned a few small tricks here and there.

Dean still knew better than to take too long recuperating, because Alistair did get bored easily and would devise cruel games out of impatience. Not wanting to provoke him was at the top of Dean's continuous to-do list. So Dean straightened and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He looked Alistair in the eye and nodded, indicating his understanding of - and acquiescing to - his new assignment.

Dean was right about Alistair's boredom issue, but he was totally wrong about the impatience factor. Alistair was a very patient man (well, demon). And he could wait a long time for something he really wanted. And he had been waiting for these moments with Dean for a long time. He could stand to stretch out each tiny moment in this experience, to delay his own gratification, in order to eke out the most pleasure from Dean's pain. The first Righteous Man in Hell, Dean's father, had been mouthy at first, too, blithely tossing out one-liners and dark jokes. Then John had changed after the first few years; he turned majestic in his suffering, a silent martyr. John was boring.

But Dean had the most beautiful pain that Alistair had ever seen. He suffered exquisitely, a bronze statue god of anguish and guilt and self-loathing. And his capacity for suffering seemed endless, a bottomless pit of despair that not even Alistair could claim credit for creating. After torturing Dean for so long, Alistair wasn't even sure that John was the original source of Dean's self-esteem issues. Normally it was the parents. And if Alistair had tried to exploit that in Dean by playing up a daddy kink in the bedroom, who could blame him? It was for Dean's own good to break him down to rubble so he could be rebuilt in Alistair's image instead of John's. So Dean could be strong and whole and lead Hell by Alistair's side.

So Alistair waited while Dean retched, watching. He watched everything - the way the muscles in Dean's back stretched when he crouched over like that, the slope and set of his shoulders and neck to try to read Dean's mood when he couldn't see his face, and Dean's hands, which were also good indicators of what he was feeling. His poor Dean, he couldn't hide much. Even if his face was a stone, his muscles betrayed him. Alistair knew that Dean was taking longer than strictly necessary to stand back up after being sick, but he didn't mind a little foreplay. He enjoyed the almost-but-not-quite pins and needles feeling of anticipation along his demon arms and the tingling in his skeletal palms. 

For the first time in a very long time, hundreds of years in fact, Alistair *felt* things around Dean. Because of Dean. And he knew that he made Dean feel things, too. Mostly, he'd made Dean feel revulsion or fear or anger (or a fun combo thereof), and that made Alistair proud and happy. But Alistair also knew that he made Dean feel wanted, protected (from other demons; Alistair was very possessive), and cherished, even. Things Dean had never felt before, not from Daddy, whom he'd given up his childhood to be the good little soldier for; not from Sam, the little brother Dean had given up his childhood to raise in the Hunter lifestyle; and definitely not from any transient girlfriends he'd had along the way.

And that was the bigger accomplishment here. Alistair was the Grand Torturer in Hell and he was suitably good at his job. Breaking Dean was a source of pride, especially considering that doing so was the First Seal, which began the path to the apocalypse and Lucifer being brought onto Earth. Alistair was seeing big improvements in his station because of that, extra perks on top of his already-successful demonic career. Alistair was one of the elite few that ruled Hell, answering only to the Big Man himself. Yet, despite all that, Alistair was more excited by all the progress he'd made in making Dean trust him, seek his approval, need Alistair's very presence. It was the much trickier and more difficult task of the two, and now that the First Seal was broken, Alistair could buckle down and focus on making Dean his completely.

He looked over his golden boy greedily, enjoying the way Dean affected the stiff-upper-lip persona, while he was still a quivering mess inside. Dean hadn't noticed (but Alistair had), that his stance had changed in the last thirty years. He used to stand with his feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back, the classic solider parade-rest posture, leftover from Daddy Winchester training. Now, after subtle verbal pushes here and there ("Oh, that's nice, Dean. I like your hands at your sides like that, makes your shoulders seem broader.") and the regular physical corrections (gently smoothing his t-shirt across his back, moving Dean's arms out of the way as he did so), Dean nine times out of ten naturally stood in front of Alistair now with his arms by his sides, feet close together, chin tilted downward submissively to his Master.

But what Alistair loved the most about his boy was that he hadn't yet lost his personality, his biting wit, the juvenile jokes, that annoying and titillating spark of defiance. Dean was a walking oxymoron; broken but not, sorrowful yet cheerful at times, physically strong but so unsure of himself that it made him weak, independent yet thrillingly co-dependent. Now, co-dependent on Alistair, strung out for his affection like a junkie, always chasing the high, needing the next fix before this one's even gone. Alistair was more than glad to keep supplying Dean's habit, a trickle at a time, anyway. At least until the day that Alistair no longer had to string Dean along to ensure his absolute obedience.

Once Dean had proven his allegiance to Alistair in every possible way Alistair could conceive of, he'd reward Dean with the highest honor that he could bestow upon another - autonomy, as well as his own title amongst the countless, nameless demons in Hell. Formerly Righteous Man Dean Winchester would be promoted to the position that Alistair had chosen for him, had taken great care in selecting, actually. Dean would become Astaroth, a Great Duke of Hell, part of the Unholy Trinity that consisted of himself, Lucifer, and his newly re-branded Dean. (Alistair made a mental note to himself: should he physically brand Dean, too? Hmm, things to ponder.)

Alistair sighed wistfully and smiled down at his boy. It would still take time, but Alistair was patient. He would wait, and keep working on Dean. For instance, this whole thing with making Dean seduce and sodomize his father wasn't strictly for fun. It also served the additional purpose of Dean proving to Alistair that he would follow any command - *any* - and therefore could be trusted. Alistair smiled then, and reached out to caress Dean's cheek lovingly. He couldn't wait to watch Dean tear apart his Daddy, one bloody hole at a time.


	11. Point of No Return

Dean glanced over at the rack and sighed, a little irritated. If he was going to seduce John, he wouldn't be able to do so with John in his current position, bent over the end of the table like that. Fuck. Dean looked over at the furniture in the room, considering the options. He still didn't know exactly what the sawhorse was for, and he didn't want to appear dumb in front of Alistair. The bed was a little too on the nose for his liking. Dean decided the chair would be best for working John over. Just right for a one-night stand type of affair, which was how Dean was going to compartmentalize this event, since it was familiar territory. Picking someone up, turning on the charm, saying and doing whatever was necessary to close the deal. He'd done it countless times for different reasons - money for food, someplace warm to stay, just something to pass the time and smother his everyday burdens. This was no different. Except that it was a guy. Except that it was his dad.

Dean shook that thought away, then cleared his throat and spoke to Alistair without looking at him. "I'd like to get John to the chair," he said dispassionately. I can do this, he thought. I will do this.

Alistair waited, watching Dean calmly. When Dean made no move toward John, nor spoke any further, Alistair crossed his arms and tutted at him reproachfully. "And...?"

Dean finally looked up at Alistair, just barely managing to stamp down his irritation and disgust. Alistair knew he wanted help, Dean was sure. He just wanted Dean to say the words, to ask for help. As if this wasn't difficult enough, Alistair was playing games. Always playing games.

"Would you please zap him over to the chair for me?" Dean asked simply, not begging, not demanding. Just a request. If Alistair said no, Dean would figure out a way to do it himself. He'd play along. He didn't have much choice, anyway.

Alistair gave Dean an incomprehensible look and waved his hand airily. Dean looked back toward the table, but John was now sitting upright in the chair, strapped at the ankles against the chair legs and his wrists along the armrests. In this position, his legs were naturally spread open and still being naked, his junk was all out there to see. It freaked Dean out a little bit (ok, more than a little bit), but he just kept telling himself over and over that it wasn't really John, that it was some random soul or demon made to appear like John. Dean released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and thanked Alistair with a nod. Alistair narrowed his eyes, but Dean had already turned away and walked toward the chair.

Alistair was the only dude that Dean had ever... been with, and he'd never had to try to seduce Alistair. He had been made to enjoy it, to beg for it, to participate fully, though. Otherwise he'd have gotten in more trouble, the kind of trouble that ends in blood and bile and holding your own organs in your hands for as long as it takes for your body to shut down and die without them. This wasn't much different. It was just preemptive participation. He could pretend it was Alistair, even. That he was just trying to please Alistair like any other day. Alistair in another body.

Dean knelt down in front of John, laying his hands on John's thighs. It was one of Alistair's favorite things, when Dean was on his knees. Alistair had said to use his talented mouth, so that's what he'd do. John still had that faraway look, not looking at Dean, not looking at anything. Maybe that was for the best.

Dean ran his hands up John's thighs, skimming past the scary parts, and up his chest. To do so, he leaned forward into John's lap, inserting himself between John's legs. He rubbed his face along the side of John's stubbled cheek, like an affectionate cat. Dean closed his eyes and smelled John's neck, licking just below his ear. He smelled like his childhood - grease and gunpowder and so very... male. Dean inhaled again and cloaked himself in the scent. It made him feel relaxed and safe.

Dean heard a sound to his left and broke away from nuzzling his dad's neck, turning to see Alistair lounging close by in another chair that had appeared. Dean smiled his sultry smile at Alistair, trying to get into character for the task ahead. Dean even went so far as to wink at Alistair, like he and Alistair were a couple, bringing another person into their sex life for kicks. Which was basically true, if you ignored the fact that Dean was being forced to do this.And that he and Alistair weren't a couple. He was Alistair's toy, his plaything, his possession. And that didn't make Dean sad a little, it didn't.

Dean turned back to his dad, trying to remember how he used to seduce people before Hell. It had been a long time since Dean had had to use his powers of persuasion in any circumstance, much less the bedroom. He wasn't sure if he even remembered how to do this, how to turn someone on that didn't have to do with blood and gore and violence. With women, he knew what to do, but more than half of the battle with them was to make them feel special, sexy. The rest followed. But with men? He didn't know what turned them on. Dean frowned. He *did* know what turned himself on, though. He'd use that, maybe it would translate to someone else.

Dean began kissing John's neck and shoulders, using his hands to touch where he wasn't kissing, everything still above the waist. He was pressed pretty close to John's body, though, and he could feel the heat coming from down there. John wasn't hard or anything, but his skin was scorching hot. Dean ignored that for the moment and just focused on his current goal - to loosen John up, make his body feel good, hopefully get John's body wanting something that his mind wouldn't necessary agree to.

Alistair let out a protracted sigh from his chair. Dean took that to mean that either he was taking too long or not doing something right, and he mentally prepared to adjust his strategy. Dean leaned back slightly and ran his blunt fingernails down John's chest, digging in harder than he normally would have, for Alistair's benefit.

John reacted at that, hissing and arching slightly away from the back of the chair. For a split second, John's eyes met Dean's and Dean froze, waiting to see what John would do when he saw that Dean was the one touching him. But John just looked at him like he didn't know him, like he could be anybody, a stranger. Then John settled back into his blank-faced stare, looking off into the distance. Strangely, it hurt Dean's feelings. His dad didn't even know him, didn't recognize him. He wanted to yell at his dad, 'It's me! Your son! How do you not know me?'

Dean shook himself out of that line of thinking. Duh. This wasn't his dad, remember? This was some rando. Just another conquest. Of course there would be no recognition. And wasn't that better anyway? How horrible would it be if this facsimile of his father had his thoughts and voice, and begged Dean not to do this, don't ever give in, son. Be strong for your family. That age-old anger flared up inside Dean, steeled his resolve. He would be strong. He would make this work, no matter what it took.

Dean dug his fingers into John's thighs this time, digging his nails in deep. John gasped again but didn't look at Dean this time. Dean smiled cruelly. Pain he could work with. Sex and violence, this Dean could understand. He reached up and grabbed John's nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, tweaking them medium-hard. Too hard for it to be a caress, too soft for it to be torture. Juuuuuust right, like Goldilocks, Dean thought.

John grunted and arched forward slightly. Dean saw, rather than felt, Little John perk up a little. Aha, Dean thought. Progress. He leaned forward again and took one nipple into his mouth, biting down with teeth on the very tip. John jerked, inadvertently tearing his nipple past Dean's teeth, making himself bleed. Dean saw and smelled the blood right away and before he even realized he was doing it, he stuck his tongue out to lap up the blood. He heard Alistair suck in a breath and Dean smiled to himself. A tiny bit more blood welled up from John's nipple and Dean wrapped his lips around the nipple this time, instead of teeth, and sucked on it like he would a woman's breast. Dean suckled at his father's chest, bringing his hand up to just below John's pectoral muscle, to push the skin up toward Dean's mouth. John was openly panting now, and Dean swore he could hear Alistair breathing heavy, too. 

Dean was pleased; he had forgotten how much he enjoyed this. Pleasuring someone, learning their body, opening up their secret wants like a treasure chest. Two someones, actually, if you counted performing for Alistair as well. Dean crossed his legs at the ankle underneath him and lifted his feet in the air. He knew that him on his knees, his ab and thigh muscles straining to keep his feet off the floor would be a pretty picture for Alistair. Dean even wiggled his ass a little bit, showing off.

Alistair harrumphed good-naturedly. "I know what you're doing, wicked boy," Alistair reprimanded Dean, but they both knew it was a pretense. Dean glanced over at Alistair and grinned. Alistair deliberately palmed his own crotch through his slacks, sending a jolt of excitement through Dean. Dean looked down and saw that Alistair was getting hard. He didn't know if it was from the blood, or Dean licking it up, or staring at Dean's ass, or all three. Not that it mattered. This was all about Alistair, anyway. Make him happy, and Dean's job would be done. Hopefully.

Dean licked his lips, still watching Alistair's hand rubbing himself slowly outside his clothes. It wasn't fair, Dean thought. I'm naked, John's naked... Alistair should be naked, too. Dean grumbled his discontent and as if Alistair could read his mind, Alistair chuckled darkly. Dean raised his eyes once again to Alistair's and he read there that Alistair did know what he was thinking. The next moment, Alistair was naked, too. And now he was stroking himself, watching Dean watch him. Dean whimpered and licked his lips again. If only he could... No. No, Dean didn't want that. He didn't want Alistair, not really. He played pretend when he had to, like now, but he didn't actually want Alistair (then why did he think about Alistair sometimes during his 'me time?' Ok, a lot of the time.). He was just confused because Alistair was so very dominant, so sure of himself, so strong. He was everything Dean had always wanted to be, but fell short of, in life. Except for the torturing, evil part. And yet...

Dean went back to his work, turning back to John. If Alistair wanted him to use his mouth, he'd give him a show he wouldn't forget anytime soon. Dean gave John's bruised and swollen nipple a few soothing licks before beginning to kiss his way down his torso. When Dean neared his belly button, he could feel the heat coming off John like a space warmer. Dean mentally bit the bullet and tilted his face downward toward his dad's crotch. Pretend it's Alistair, pretend it's Alistair, Dean chanted internally. John was a fairly well-endowed man, which Dean already knew. But there's knowing, and then there's *knowing*. Dean gulped and blew out a breath deliberately over John's cock. It twitched. Dean did it again, blowing air along the entire length in a continuous movement. John squirmed in his seat and Dean noted with no little satisfaction that it wasn't to get away from Dean, but rather to move his dick closer to Dean's mouth.

Dean thought about what he liked, thought about what Alistair liked. He decided to combine the two methods, a little sweet and a little rough. Dean reached forward with his hand to grip his father's dick and held it upright from the base. Even mostly soft, John was pretty thick in circumference. Dean hoped he'd be able to handle it, in just a moment when he did what he was about to do. Dean leaned forward to take John's cock (your dad's cock!, his mind screamed) in his mouth, ass canted outward from his strange posture. Just as he did, he sensed some shift in the air behind him, right before he felt lubed fingers enter his asshole. Dean yelped and jerked forward, effectively swallowing his dad's cock in one motion. Dean gagged against the sensation, but held on, willing the gagging feeling to subside.

Once he regained his composure, Dean let John slide out of his mouth with a wet plop, and turned his head to look askance at Alistair, who had unceremoniously shoved two fingers inside Dean and was working him open like a lock. Dean groaned and whined at Alistair, pleading with his eyes. He knew better than to ask outright what Alistair was doing. I mean, Dean knew what he was *doing*, but not the why. Alistair smiled down at Dean with carnal lust, but abruptly, his fingers were gone. Dean exhaled roughly, and closed his eyes. Nothing further happened back there, so Dean returned to his task. As soon as Dean sucked John's cock back into his mouth, Alistair shoved his cock into Dean's ass, hard. He hadn't opened Dean up completely, so it was tight and rough. Dean wailed around John's dick, while the top of his head was pushed forward into John's stomach. Dean almost bit down, being startled and his natural tendency would be to clamp down. But Dean managed to relax his jaw so as not to hurt John unnecessarily.

Alistair pulled out and thrust back into Dean seamlessly and Dean moaned deep in his throat. John's cock twitched to life inside Dean's mouth at that, and Dean's eyes widened in understanding. He moaned again, in time with Alistair's thrusts, and with each vibration of Dean's throat, John's dick got harder and harder. Soon it was difficult to swallow John all the way down. Dean felt like his lips were being split open, much like his ass was being split open by Alistair. Dean panted and groaned and tried to breathe through the process, realizing that whether he meant to or not, Alistair was actually helping him. Every rough thrust inside Dean turned him on, which in turn made him hungry to suck the cock in front of him. He'd always been kind of a slut that way.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, Alistair pulled out of Dean completely and stepped away. Dean almost cried in frustration. Now he felt cold and empty, abandoned in the middle of something he couldn't finish himself. Dean swiveled his head around, trying to locate Alistair, to beg him not to stop, to please fuck him. But Alistair was already sitting calmly back in his chair, his legs crossed and fingers steepled across his lap. Dean frowned at him, which earned him a laugh from Alistair.

"You really are too adorable when you're horny and frustrated, Dean-o." Alistair smiled lovingly at Dean.

"Well, if I'm so fucking adorable, come back here and fuck me," Dean retorted, pushing his ass out deliberately.

Alistair chuckled again. "Now, Dean, that wouldn't be very sporting of me. Besides, if all you want is a cock in your ass, you've got another option right in front of you, don't you, my boy?" Alistair nodded his head toward John, who still had quite the hard-on, despite the interruption in activity.

Dean gawped at Alistair. He had never considered fucking himself on his dad's dick when he'd been thinking about what this situation was going to entail. He always saw himself as pitching, and John catching, if you know what I mean. Not because John was less dominant than Dean, but because Dean just thought that raping someone meant penetrating them. He'd never considered that shoving yourself onto someone else's cock was rape, too. I suppose that's how women rape men, though. It happens.

Dean threw one last pleading look at Alistair, but getting nothing back but a wicked smile and a dismissive hand gesture, Dean turned back to John once again. Here's one more thing to add to his list of fucked-up shit he never thought he'd do. He was going to fuck himself on his dad's cock. And he didn't even feel that bad about it. Dean shrugged. C'est la vie in Hell, baby.


	12. Family Remains

Alistair sat back in his chair, smiling to himself. He was so pleased with Dean's progress. Alistair's favorite sin had always been pride, and he was very proud that he'd been able to sniff out the darkest facets of Dean's personality from the deepest recesses of his mind. He had found them and nurtured them slowly, replacing the bravado with the true strength that comes from knowing who you really are. And Dean was finally becoming who he really was - a follower, someone who took orders and had the will to carry them out no matter what the hurdles. But not just that; Dean was also a leader, he could inspire others and galvanize them to the cause. The commander of an army, a warrior in his own right. Someday he'd be Alistair's second-in-command, leading their army of hellions into the great Age of Enlightenment, bending Hell and Earth to their will. 

Alistair watched as Dean struggled with the decision of whether to fuck himself on John's cock. There were multiple scenarios that Alistair had imagined would happen during this adventure, but somehow his Dean always managed to pleasantly surprise him. Like tasting John's blood. That was... well, Alistair couldn't deny the arousal that had elicited in him. Dean had no idea how much enjoyment he provided to Alistair, especially after centuries in Hell of nothing new happening. Dean was always coming up with something unexpected, keeping Alistair on his toes. Not that Alistair would ever admit such a thing to anyone, especially not to Dean. No reason to give the boy leverage over him. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day, when they were almost equals. Until then, Dean would remain his subordinate in mind, spirit, and body.

Alistair uncrossed and recrossed his legs, adjusting himself in the process. He hadn't been this pleased with life since...

_"Go to Hell," John smirked as he spat out red. "Oh, wait..." John gurgled his laugh, still choking slightly on his own blood._

_Alistair narrowed his eyes and wondered, once again, what it would take to break the infamous John Winchester. He'd tried so many things, and had made some progress occasionally, only for John to rebound the next day, joking between screams. First had been the physical torture, the most direct route. Ten years, fifteen… nothing. Not even a small crack in the facade._

_So Alistair upped the ante, started psychologically torturing John. He visited John in the visage of Mary, the wife whose death sparked his Hunter life. The lifestyle that ultimately got him killed and sent to Hell, since he had sold his soul to save Dean's life. He'd lied to John with Mary's voice, telling him that it was all his fault that she was dead, that he should have been there to save her, he should have done more, he shouldn't have raised the boys as Hunters, that he was a failure in everything. John had broken down and cried at that, begging Mary (Alistair) for forgiveness, admitting his failures, his weaknesses. It had been very difficult for Alistair not to smile with Mary's mouth. And yet, despite years of emotionally battering John on and off as his dead wife, Alistair had yet to see the Righteous Man truly break. Luciferdamnit, what was it going to take? So Alistair considered his next plan._

_Alistair knew that John felt an immense amount of guilt – about Mary, about raising their sons as Hunters, toward Sam and their inevitable head-butting, but mostly about Dean. His first born, his soldier, his shadow. Sam had been the prodigal son, leaving them and the Family Business to attend Stanford, but returning when Dean needed him to help look for John. Dean, on the other hand, had always been the perfect son. He had looked out for and raised Sam from a young age because John was too busy. John was off chasing demons for the sake of Mary’s ghost, and then when he mostly failed at avenging her, he drank. He drank too much. So even when he was around, he was in no condition to raise his boys. So Dean had done it. Dean had raised himself and Sam, and had tried to shield Sam from the bulk of the Hunter life, had tried to protect him (even from John himself, at times). Dean had grown up into a great Hunter, had absorbed all the lessons that John and other Hunters had taught, had worked hard to be exactly what everyone else needed him to be, never complaining, never questioning, always trusting and silently adoring John. And John selfishly took advantage of that for decades, letting Dean take care of all the responsible, adult-type stuff that John couldn’t be bothered with while he was obsessing over Mary’s death. To make matters worse, John never thanked Dean for being the adult in their fractured family, not once. In fact, if anything, John bitched at Dean when things didn’t run like a well-oiled machine, or when Dean made any tiny mistake, or when Dean showed any weakness. That was the crux of what John felt so guilty about; that when he didn’t flat-out neglect or ignore Dean, he regularly made Dean feel unworthy, unloved, and unlovable. Nothing was further from the truth and John had never gotten the chance to fix that._

_Alistair smiled to himself. He wondered how John would handle a dose of Dean-sized guilt and torture. There’s only one way to find out, and no time like the present, isn’t that what they say? Alistair pulled on Dean’s form like a cheap suit. Since it was built from John’s memories of Dean, it wasn’t exact, but it was pretty close. He probably wouldn’t be able to fool Sam, but he was confident that he could pull off convincing John, the neglectful father that he was._

_Alistair (as Dean) had himself dragged into John’s torture chamber by two of his demons, and strung up on a rack identical to John’s, facing each other from across the “tools” table. Alistair had given himself two black eyes, one was swollen shut, and assorted cuts and bruises all over his body. He moaned as if in pain when his demon lackeys latched him onto the rack but kept his “good” eye closed. For good measure, one of Alistair’s demons punched him in the stomach as he left, eliciting an almost-not-fake grunt from Alistair-Dean followed by a pitiful groan for John’s benefit._

_John looked alarmed, but wary. “Son?” Alistair could hear the poorly-disguised fear in John’s voice and felt a mild jolt of excitement._

_Alistair-Dean opened his non-swollen eye. “D-dad?” Alistair pushed the whiny, needy undertones into Dean’s voice. “Dad. What are you – I mean, you haven’t – oh god, Dad, Sammy’s all alone now, with Lilith…” Alistair-Dean began sobbing, banging his head back against the rack._

_John was stricken with sorrow and frustration for his boy. He strained against his restraints futilely, trying to get to his son to comfort him, despite not knowing how to do that. He’d never been the comforting one, that had been Mary, before… before. John sighed. Suck it up, Winchester._

_“It’s okay, son. It’s not your fault. Everything’s gonna be okay.” John soothed, barely keeping it together. He knew his words were lies, but he had to say them anyway, had to try._

_Alistair-Dean looked up sharply, sniffling through the last of his sobs and composing himself. “No, it’s not, Dad.” He tugged at his wrist restraints. “Look at us. We are not going to be ‘okay’. We’re both in here, stuck in Hell for god knows how long, while Sammy’s back up there. He’s gonna get himself killed.” Alistair-Dean’s voice now was panicked, laced with fear and regret. He hung his head and caught his breath in several staccato gasps._

_John’s expression was a mask of grief. How had Dean ended up here? Had he made a deal, too? Or was it because of all the bad things they’d done? Would they all end up in Hell anyway, regardless of deals or the good they did, the good they tried to do? John hated that Dean was down here, but the thought of Sam ending up down here, too? That would kill him. Sam was so good, not like himself. Always sticking up for the little guy._

_John’s eyes narrowed. Why *was* Dean down here so soon? By John’s count, 22 years in Hell had passed since he’d taken the deal, which if his sources were accurate, meant that just over 2 years had passed up above. And Dean had just mentioned Lilith, which meant that they had figured out who was responsible for Yellow Eyes’ plan. So why would Dean throw his soul away? Was Sam okay? For that matter, how did John know for sure that this was really Dean? What if this was just another trick of Alistair’s, like Mary?_

_“Son. I need you to say the word.” John’s voice was steel and ice as his eyes dissected Dean from head to toe._

_“What word? What are you talking about, Dad?” Alistair-Dean looked confused and hurt, and hurting. Defeated._

_John narrowed his eyes again at his “son”. “Our word. *The* word. You know, Dean.” His urging was pointed, desperate. He wasn’t sure whether to want this to be his Dean, or for it not to be his Dean._

_Alistair-Dean closed his good eye again and sighed, but said nothing. John’s heart deflated. “I can’t believe you, Dad. I can’t believe you don’t know it’s me. That you don’t know your own son.” Alistair-Dean sounded pained, hurt and resentful at the same time._

_John’s resolve didn’t waver. “You know I can’t trust anyone, or anything, son. That’s why we have the word. Just humor your old man.” John tried a joking tone, but it fell flat. They both knew he was deadly serious._

_Alistair-Dean opened his eye and glared at John. “Poughkeepsie.” What John didn't seem to realize was that whatever John knew, Alistair knew. Alistair could read his thoughts and his mind like a book. Everything inside John was open to Alistair, even their supposed "emergency" word._

_John exhaled a harsh breath. This really was his boy. “Dean.” That one syllable was packed with so much – sadness, regret, and strangely, even relief._

_Dean-Alistair nodded. “Dad, it’s me.”_

_“I’m so sorry, son. I’m so…” John choked up, shaking his head. “This is all my fault. I should have…” But there were no words he could say that meant anything, no apologies he could give that would amount to anything. He had failed completely. Had failed his sons, his wife… everything that ever meant anything to him. John hung his head and began crying._

_Dean-Alistair stared aghast at John, looking horrified by his father’s breakdown. But inwardly, Alistair crowed in triumph. This is the way the world ends – not with a bang, but a whimper. And Alistair knew that this was the beginning of the end._


	13. Metamorphosis

Dean spent several moments clearing his head of any thoughts of his father, his mentor, his hero, before reaching below him and lining up the cock below him with his aching, too-empty hole. He was crouched over John’s lap awkwardly, since John was still strapped to the easy chair at the wrists and ankles. Dean looked forward at Alistair, made him the focus of his efforts, as if this were the old days when Alistair liked to watch while Dean got fucked by other demons, when Dean had to humiliate himself begging for it from anyone or anything that could relieve the raging river of tension built up inside him, even just a little bit.

Alistair watched Dean, a cruel smile playing on his thin lips. “Dean, my boy, so pretty whoring yourself for me. And with your own father this time. This truly is a wondrous sight to behold.” On the last word, Alistair uncrossed his legs and grasped his own cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.

Dean blushed. He was equally embarrassed, turned on by Alistair’s praise, and ashamed of himself for thinking of violating his dad. Well, technically, he’d already violated John by sucking his dick, but this was… well, this was something altogether different. Dean faltered in his initial resolve that he could do this. But he was frightened of the alternative; what would Alistair do if Dean backed out, so to speak?

Dean looked up at Alistair again, watched him stroke himself while watching Dean, and once again Dean felt the now-familiar well of lust stir inside him. It was so hot that Alistair found him hot. Dean wondered for the first time if he was Alistair’s only… what? Boy toy? Sex slave? Just plain slave in general? Prisoner, for sure. Dean sighed inwardly only, not wanting to tip Alistair off that something was wrong. None of that mattered. All that mattered was staying off the rack, and that meant he had to do… whatever he had to do to make Alistair happy with him. Dean gritted his teeth, kept his eyes on Alistair, all over Alistair, encouraging his own lust to the forefront of his thoughts and feelings. He could do this. He would do this. It wasn’t really his dad anyway, right? He reminded himself of that; he kept forgetting.

Dean reached back down between his legs, ready this time to really do it, to get it over with… but John’s dick was no longer hard. Dean practically wept in frustration. Now what was he going to do? Alistair was going to be so pissed if Dean didn’t rape John, and he’d know if Dean tried to fake it. He always knew.

So Dean gave up the ghost immediately and sat down on John’s legs, leaning backward so at least Alistair would have a nice view of Dean’s body. “I guess the old man isn’t ‘up’ for it after all,” he crooned, wrapping his arms around John’s neck behind him and nuzzling the older man’s neck. He lowered his lashes while keeping his eyes on Alistair, knowing that it was his signature come-hither look. Worked on almost anyone – male, female, young, old… didn’t matter. Usually.

Alistair’s face was that neutral, genial smile that meant he could be feeling anything from boredom to mercy to anger, Dean never knew. It was what happened right after that smile that was the litmus test. Dean held his breath and waited for his Judgment.

“Such a shame, dear boy.” Alistair began, having long since stopped stroking himself. “I had such high hopes for you, Dean. I thought you had learned to follow my orders. I thought you were capable of carrying out the simplest demands.” Alistair’s voice was calm, but dripping with disappointment and regret.

Dean wanted to protest, even began shaking his head no, that he had learned, was capable, but Alistair stopped him with a brisk wave of his hand. “But I guess I was wrong. And you know how I *hate* to be wrong.” Alistair’s tone had turned quiet, deadly venom, and it began snaking its way through Dean, paralyzing his body and choking the breath from him. Dean gasped for air and tried to move, but he was stuck in place by Alistair’s power.

Alistair shook his head sadly and stood, walking toward Dean where he was still sprawled across John’s lap. Dean was afraid; this was a side of Alistair he tried not to provoke into existence anymore. This meant pain and blood and death, and only the last if he was lucky. Otherwise, he could spend weeks or months paying for this mistake before Alistair felt he had learned his lesson, and the amount and severity of torture that Alistair could elicit in that period was indescribable. In this mood, Alistair would make the stuff of Dean’s childhood nightmares come to life, before he knew about monsters; drawing and quartering him, or staking him to a post where fire would lick at his feet first before devouring his entire body, or caging starving rats inside a coffin so they would slowly chew Dean’s body to pieces. Dean shuddered but didn’t break eye contact with Alistair, pleading with his eyes that he was sorry, so sorry, that he’d do anything to fix it.

Alistair stared down at Dean with undisguised contempt. “I’m honestly not even sure why I keep you around anymore, Dean. Maybe I’d be better off giving up on you and feeding you to the hounds for good.” Dean whined in the back of his throat and tried to shake his head. “What, something to say?” Alistair waved his hand and Dean could breathe again, could move again.

Dean knelt at Alistair’s feet and looked up at him, not pleading, not pathetic – just resigned, rational. “Please, Alistair. I won’t say it’s not my fault; it is. I know it is. I know I’m not good enough. But I *am* learning, I *am* trying. And I’ll get better. I swear to you that I’ll get better.”

Alistair cupped Dean’s face fondly. His boy was so appealing like this, begging for forgiveness. “Ah, but Dean, how can I trust you? How can I trust you when you won’t even do this one thing for me?”

Dean clenched his jaw and straightened his spine. His lifetime of steely resolve flooded back - all those years raising himself and Sam, fighting monsters, hustling to pay the bills somehow, doing every little and big thing needed just to keep their family together, to keep Sam in one piece, to keep himself going day after day when all he wanted to do was give up. But he couldn’t give up, not then, and not now. It wasn’t in him. He was a Winchester.

“You can trust me because I don’t have any other choice. It’s either you… and this,” Dean gestured with his hands at the room around them, “…or I die. Again. I mean, for real this time, no coming back, and I know that. And I don’t want to die.” Dean finished his plea with his arms crossed in front of him, his old stubborn bravado coming through.

Alistair pretended to consider his words, tapping his chin thoughtfully. In truth, he didn’t have any intention of throwing Dean away – he was still way too entertaining, and every day, a little more of the old Dean disappeared, leaving a willing participant in Alistair’s plans in his place. And there was still the possibility that together, they would break John finally. Even though the Apocalypse had already begun with Dean’s taking up his knife, it was still a matter of principle that Alistair wanted to break John. Complete the task he was given. Using any tools at his disposal. And currently, that tool was Dean. His beautiful broken boy.

“I believe you, Dean.” Alistair soothed. Dean visibly relaxed a fraction, letting his arms fall to his sides in Alistair’s preferred stance. “And there is a way you can make it up to me.” Dean nodded and waited expectantly for his penance/punishment, knowing that whatever it was going to be, it would be a whopper.

“You see, Daddy dearest over there has shut down. He doesn’t really respond anymore, as you’ve no doubt noticed by now.” Dean nodded again, dumbly. “So, in order to make up for your grievous lack of accomplishment thus far, you simply have to make John wake up again. Make him respond to you. Make him aware of the situation.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. How the fuck was he supposed to do that? Make him respond? He’d been sucking the guy’s dick and it had barely registered. And he hadn’t acknowledged Dean at all so far. It was like he wasn’t even there, or in a walking coma or something.

Alistair was still talking, so Dean snapped his head up to pay attention. “…I’ll even help you out, Dean. I’ll tell you how to do it.” Dean quirked an eyebrow in response, surprised that Alistair would offer a hint.

Alistair smiled that cruel smile again. “You’re going to use that pretty, talented mouth of yours to convince him that you’re really you. If you can do that, I know he’ll wake up. Then you’re going to escape together.” Dean looked up, still surprised and now confused as well, a pretty combination, in Alistair’s mind.

Alistair leaned down to whisper the last part in Dean’s ear. “And right before you make it out, you’ll be the one to betray him. To bring him back, to put him back up on the rack. And he’ll know that you planned it all, the whole time, just because I asked you to.”

Dean was crestfallen. He would have to gain his dad’s trust just to break it again, in the most horrible way possible. And not even for a good reason. It would crush his father to see Dean stoop so low. And Dean knew that was the point. That was why Alistair wanted him to do it.

Alistair straightened and looked back down at Dean. “So, what do you think of my little plan? Are you going to be a good little boy and make Daddy proud?” Alistair smirked at his own double entendre and ran his thumb over the corner of Dean’s bottom lip affectionately. Dean leaned into the touch, despite himself, and nodded.

“What was that? Daddy couldn’t hear you.” Alistair pulled Dean’s chin up, forcing Dean to meet his gaze.

“Yes, I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. Anything for you, Alistair.” Dean sounded and looked convincing, but the words tasted like the cold end of a barrel in his mouth. He had already lost his soul, but this time, Dean would swear he could feel part of his humanity shedding off. He wondered how many pieces were left, after all the things he’d done so far, and how many more things he would do – and how long it would take for him to completely become one of the monsters that he used to hunt.


End file.
